Can't Wait, Want Now.

I always found that one of life's greatest ironies as a child was that the same people who persisted with the idea that playing video games would rot my brain were the same people who bought me those video games in the first place. My parents bestowed my first Nintendo Entertainment System upon me as a Christmas gift sometime in the late 80's (note to self, forgetting the exact year could be proof of brain rotting capabilities), and almost immediately the warning of imminent short bus riding began. Not that I can blame them, I was hooked on the damn thing. For at least a two-week period I'm pretty sure I convinced myself that Mario and Luigi were actual members of my family, and that we had loaned our family dog to assist me in Duck Hunt. The warnings of brain rot, and threats of permanent NES removal were actually starting to make an impact at one point, and I was ready to give my controller some rest, but then along came one of the greatest video games of my generation: Mike Tyson's Punch-Out.

Now, it's not what you think. Sure, I loved this game, but frankly I was never very good at it. What made this game so life changing is that when I was at my breaking point, believing all of the evils that my parents were advertising, a funny thing happened. I arrived home from school early one day to find my stepfather, the loudest champion of the anti-gaming society, in my bedroom, controller in hand, fighting Don Flamenco.

The jig was up.

The fortune associated with catching my stepfather in the act was two-fold. First and most obvious, he backed off his anti-video game stance and compromised with the all-familiar "not until your homework is finished *wink*" directive, and second, he had been secretly playing so long he was actually able to teach me how to play the damned game. Sure, I was the last person I know to actually beat Mike Tyson, but it happened and for better or for worse is one of my bigger accomplishments in life.

If you have even managed to read this far you are definitely asking yourself what the point of all of this is. Well, besides that I am trying to let all of the DR faithful know that I have actually accomplished something with my life, Punch-Out is being resurrected for the Wii. Sadly, and I can't figure out why, Mike Tyson's name and likeness have been removed, but the below commercial should squash any doubts you may have of the game because of such an omission. This commercial has it all, a real boxer (Paulie Malignaggi for those that know boxing, which I sure as shit do not) playing Little Mac, Clay Davis playing Doc (sidenote, couldn't even get Cutty a little cameo?!?) and a lot of gym props dressed up as game characters. There has yet to be any annoyingly witty internets slang created to express how I feel about this game.



I'll see you bitches in line at Best Buy on May 18th.

It was only a matter of time

From the "get the fuck out" category of the day, I am sad to report that Corie Blount has been sentenced to one year in prison for, get this... marijuana use. A judge rejected his guilty plea, which essentially suggested that Mr. Blount needed 29 pounds of weed for his own personal consumption. Hmmm. Not even Dominican Bill could smoke that much of the Bul Bubak's weed if he had a party every Saturday night for the rest of his life. I know what you're saying: a guy named "Blount" smokes marijuana? And copious amounts of it at that? Shocking development, indeed. His forefathers must be completely blindsided by the development, and Mark Blount is probably flushing drugs down the toilet as we speak.

Before we know it Rudy Gay and William Gay will be hanging out at the 12th Street Gym. Bumpy Knuckles will have Bumpy Knuckles, and I will be featured in a Playboy Magazine spread.  

Also, I hate the Celtics. But more on that later once I am off a work computer and free to spew hatred at my convenience. 

Growing up Hood

When I used to play games at the Water Tower, perhaps the most significant off-court distraction was the inevitable decision between eating at the Italian Oven or The Depot post-game. And the concern over being molested by unnamed coaches,  but that's neither here nor there. Sometimes the Germantown Ave. Roy Rogers presented an interesting third alternative, but rarely did I need to take my focus off Matt Gordy, Matt Tuzman, or Matt Gillespie. 

Not so for Ron Artest. Whereas we played hoops within a stone's throw from Caffette, lil' Ron played hoops within a stone throw of a crazy table leg-yielding assassin who voiced his displeasure with any on-court antics by killing players via splinters and loose nails. Young black men in this country really do face insurmountable challenges. 

Ron, here's to you and your picture-perfect account of your youth. No one will ever doubt your credibility in a court of law, I assure you. Props to Big Ben out of Fairmount for bringing this gem to the DR's attention.